"Despite his blessing, I broke the oath. I shamed my kin, angered the gods, and became a deserter. hopeless and damned."
---------------
The dining hall of the Dabru estate reeked of old ambitions and newer frustrations. Tapestries that had once proclaimed their family's prosperity now hung like accusations in the guttering candlelight, faded reminders of what the Urartu had cost them over the years. Arzash sat at the head of the scarred oak table, his single eye fixed on faces twisted with righteous fury as his family members spat their grievances into the stale air. They had every right to their anger. The question was whether fury alone could win wars. His fingers traced the rim of his wine cup, a habit that had grown worse since losing his eye. All those years studying statecraft, and now he spent his time trying to keep his own family from destroying
themselves.
"We cannot let Belshaz's death go unanswered!" The voice belonged to Korim, his nephew, a hot-blooded young man whose idea of strategy began and ended with drawing steel.
"The Urartu dogs think they can murder our Burgomaster and claim the position by treaty. We show them weakness now, and they'll grind us into the blackstone!"
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table. Too many murmurs for Arzash's liking. He watched faces in the flickering light saw anger, fear, and that dangerous gleam that came when men convinced themselves that violence was not just necessary, but righteous.
"And what evidence do we have that the Urartu family were responsible?" The question came from Anumi, and Arzash felt a flicker of relief that at least one voice of reason remained in his family. She sat across from Korim, her half-elven features composed despite the heated atmosphere. Her human heritage came from the Dabru bloodline, but her pointed ears and sharp intellect were gifts from her elven mother gifts that made her one of the few people whose counsel Arzash truly valued.
"Evidence?" Korim scoffed. "Belshaz was healthy as a horse, and then suddenly he's found dead in his chambers the night before he was to announce new trade agreements that would have strengthened our position. The timing is evidence enough!"
"Timing is coincidence masquerading as proof," Anumi said. "Belshaz was sixty-three years old and had been complaining of chest pain for weeks. Half the servants can attest to that."
"Servants can be bought," snarled Volak, another family member whose scarred hands spoke of his preference for action over thought.
"Just like the Urartu can buy poison."
Arzash leaned back in his chair, letting the argument flow around him while his mind worked through possibilities. This was how he'd always operated even in the king's court, he'd been the one who listened while others spoke, who calculated while others postured. It had served him well until that final mistake, the miscalculation that had cost him his eye and his position, sending him to this forsaken frontier to rebuild from nothing.
"Tell me, Anumi," he said, his voice cutting through the din with quiet authority.
"What would you have us do? The treaty is clear with Belshaz dead, the Burgomaster position reverts to the Urartu family. Tarkun will claim it within days, and then we'll be at his mercy for an entire year."
Anumi straightened, meeting his gaze directly.
"I would have us negotiate. Propose a joint council until the next scheduled transition. Present it as maintaining stability during a time of mourning."
"Tarkun would laugh in our faces," Korim spat.
"Perhaps," Anumi acknowledged. "But if he refuses, then we have moral standing when we resist. If he accepts, we buy time to strengthen our position and investigate Belshaz's death properly."
"And if the investigation proves the Urartu are innocent?" Arzash asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Then we honor the treaty and work within it," she replied without hesitation. "Our family has survived by being smarter than our enemies, not by being more brutal."
The table erupted in protests. Voices rose, fists pounded on ancient wood, and Arzash saw the fractures in his family laid bare. The majority wanted blood wanted to strike before Tarkun could consolidate power. They saw negotiation as weakness, compromise as surrender. But Arzash had learned the cost of hasty action. In the king's court, he'd watched noble families destroy themselves through prideful overreach. He'd seen armies march to glorious defeats because their commanders mistook aggression for strategy.
"Uncle," Korim leaned forward, his voice dropping to urgent whispers. "We have contacts among the merchants, support from the farmers who remember when the Dabru family brought prosperity to this town. If we move quickly, we can present Tarkun with a fait. the people have rejected Urartu rule and demand a new election."
"And when Tarkun brings his soldiers to restore order?" Arzash asked mildly.
"Then we fight. We've always known it would come to this eventually. The Dabru family and The Urartu family can't control the town together. one has to go"
Arzash studied his nephew's face, seeing echoes of his younger self the scholar who'd believed that intelligence and determination could overcome any obstacle. Experience had taught him that the world was more complex, more unforgiving than youthful passion understood.
"Fighting is easy," he said finally. "Winning is harder. And surviving victory that's hardest of all."